


Always Have Been

by winchesterfiesta



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, F/M, Sex, Smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-09-12
Updated: 2015-09-12
Packaged: 2018-04-20 11:46:41
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,935
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4786214
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winchesterfiesta/pseuds/winchesterfiesta
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Set during the S5 era, the Reader is the prophet of the Lord. She's intended to marry Michael, supposed to help him win the battle of the apocalypse and secure the earth for himself; he wants her to be his Queen. But when she works with the Winchesters to get the rings to trap Lucifer in hell, she finds herself with a vision of her future and a predicament.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Always Have Been

**Author's Note:**

> Originally posted on my tumblr account (winchesterfiesta)

You’ll be in hell soon.  
  
“What’s wrong?” Dean’s voice sounds panicked. He shakes you softly, trying to coax you from the corner of your mind that you’re folded into, “Y/N you’re scaring me, what was your vision?”  
  
It was of tomorrow. Lucifer had Sam as his vessel now, you could see it all. Sam would regain control of his body and jump into the pit. The thought of Dean as a bloody pulp made your stomach churn. You’d be dead. Michael would be banished temporarily with holy fire, something that was guaranteed to make him angry. He’d drag you into the pit with him and Sam, as a punishment for your betrayal. He was willing to imprison himself to eternity in hell; as long as it meant he got his revenge.  
  
You blink, “Everything goes fine.”  
  
The world blurs back into view around you. Dean’s face is taut with concern, his eyebrows furrowed in a frown. It’s easier to lie than to admit that by this time tomorrow you’ll be gone.

  
“Are you lying to me?” His question is tentative. His face smooths out, worry lines vanishing behind a cooler exterior. Lips pursing, his hand brushes your face, thumb pressing on your chin and inviting you to look up at him. You acquiesce.

  
“I’m not lying,” You half-smile, wrapping your arms around his neck, “Once we get there it all goes to plan.”

  
He gulps. His Adams apple bobs in his throat and his eyes flicker with the ghost of his father’s image. You can tell his mind is whirring, churning over the fact that he let John down and Sam is dying as a result. Consoling him isn’t something that can be down with words, they seem foreign to you anyhow. A lump has formed in your throat, one that threatens to choke you if you speak. You don’t want to die.

  
“Listen to me,” You murmur, hands cupping either side of his cheeks. His hands have fallen to his sides, his body numb bar the ache in his chest. You feel the same, “This isn’t your fault. There was nothing you could have done to stop this, you tried your best and we’ve all made mistakes. I love you Dean, Sam loves you too. He wants to make things better, I know you want things not to have to be this way and I do too, but whatever happens tomorrow, you have to know that none of this is your fault. You haven’t let anybody down.”

  
“I don’t want to lose Sam.”

  
“I know,” You tell him, “I don’t want to either. I wish none of this had ever happened but now that it is, it’s done. It’s over. There’s no going back and changing things.”  
Mostly you’re saying it for your benefit; it’ll provide you a minute slice of solace to know that you’ve said your peace. Moss shines with what appears to be realisation, but it can’t be. There’s no way he wouldn’t voice an objection if he knew that you were about to be torn from him.

  
Your lips brush against his, touch cautious. It’s selfish that you want goodbye sex; that you want to have him hold you and treasure you one final time before you disappear forever. If you told him he’d want it too. You can’t risk that for your own selfish needs, you know you can’t; you’re aware you shouldn’t anyhow. Telling him your vision could change the course, he could wind up being the one dragged in if Michael was unable to get hold of you. Your desire for it to be him that lives is completely ego-centric.  
“I don’t ever want to lose you,” He whispers, fingers skimming along your sides. His warm touch and the velvety husk melts your cold façade.

  
Eyes stinging with the burn of tears, your lips slide over his. Deepening the kiss, your hands slip down his body, fingers gripping tightly at the cotton t-shirt that sheaths his form. This is the last time you get to hold him like this. His tongue slips past yours into your mouth, calloused fingertips pressing against the small of your back to cinch you closer to him. Your eyes squeeze shut, a singular tear escaping and rolling down your cheek. He must feel it on his, he’s kind enough to ignore it. His mouth glides pressingly against yours, tongue in the cavern of your mouth and fingers skimming up your spine.

  
You need him now more than ever. Your eyes flutter open as your mouths separate. There’s a look, a fleeting moment of an exchange that screams more than you’ll ever be able to say. His eyes, clouded with understanding now, take a moment to behold you: the pink tinge on the apple of your cheeks, the gentle swell of your lip from the insistence of his kiss, how your hair frames your face and how your own eyes treasure him too. His smile is still only lukewarm.

  
“I don’t want to lose you either,” You say, words moot in the face of reality. Dean knowing how much you care about him, that’s top on your priority list; always has been but now time is of the essence so it’s more urgent.

  
He sniffs. You don’t want him to cry, that’d break you in ways that he can’t even imagine. Tugging at the black cotton, you lift it over his head, tossing it to the bedside table with little regard. In a swift movement on his part, yours is gone too. He looks at you in an almost virginal fashion, there’s something about this moment that makes it feel like your first time all over again. Worshipping you, that’s what he’s doing with his stare. Your heart hums and blood gushes to pool under your cheeks.

  
“You’re so beautiful,” He murmurs, hands resting on your hips and holding you in place, “I know I’ve said that a lot but I’m not sure you’ve ever believed me,” That tear borders on dripping from his eye and down his face, “You’re goddamn beautiful Y/N. And I love you. You and Sam, most important things in my life, always have been.”

  
The droplet cascades his cheeks. He wipes it on the back of his hand, taking a deep breath. It’s all you can do not to fall apart in his arms.

  
The mixture of emotions swarm in your chest, a confusing haze that’s unintelligible for the most part: pain and desire ring clear in tantamount parts. Dean is your anchor. His lips brush your neck, suckling at the pulse point. Your heart races, fingers skidding over the expanse of his chest, the pectoral muscles tense beneath your touch. His mouth dots kisses across your neck, suckling on patches of skin that electrify your nerve endings. You need him.

  
Digits meticulously explore every single inch of available skin. You thumb at the scars, mentally recalling which hunts they’re from, which were from times he’d tried to save you and the white ones that are fading slowly into his skin. You won’t be there to see them disappear.

  
His mouth sucks particularly at one spot, just below your ear; he’d discovered your first time together that you made the most delicious noise. You re-enact it for him now, a sweet mewl that begs him to kiss you again. He specks lighter kisses across the line of your collarbones before he concedes. His body presses flush to you, the tension of his muscles pressing against you deliciously as he, with caution, positions you beneath him.

  
Hovering above you, he smiles gently down at you. He’s admiring you again. You shift, just a little, bringing yourself up to close the gap between your mouths. His lips dance against yours, tongue skirting across your lower lip as means for access. He tugs your lip, sweetly so, administering a little nip to enable you to release a small growl. Your hands muss the short blond locks, thumbing through them as your lips tangle. The kiss is sweet, heated but still undeniably loving, he tastes like peppermint and cherries, not a hint of whisky on his breath. You’re grateful.

  
“You’re beautiful too,” You say, hushed by the press of his lips and the sweep of his tongue. He nods, acknowledging the compliment; he doesn’t have the capacity to do so aloud.

  
One arm relinquishes you, pulling the pillow properly underneath your head for comfort. He clings to you tightly once he takes hold of you again, fingers working nimbly to undo your bra. Deftly he does away with it, reaching the pile of clothes it lands atop of them.

  
“I want you to know you’re the first person I’ve ever loved. You’re the first person that I’ve ever felt like this about.”

  
It’s hard for him to talk about feelings at the best of times. Your lips curve into a smile, a sincere one perhaps for the first time today, “I know. You’re the first person I’ve ever loved too. The first person I’ve ever wanted an apple pie life with.”

  
Using the term that he uses to define a normal life seems to be a little too much for him. His eyes are bright with fresh tears. He silences you with a kiss when he senses an impending interjection on your part. His lips move briskly over yours, pulling away after a moment. The thumb of his right hand caresses your cheekbone, the sentimental look giving you more than he can voice. You understand immediately; he doesn’t want to ruin the mood with his tears.

  
You yearn to reach for him, to yank him into your arms and adorn his face with kisses. You pine for his touch more though. Indulging in the feeling of rough fingertips along your hipbones, you sigh contently. His mouth takes a different trajectory, on a different course upwards. Kisses fan over you, rained down on your breasts. He sucks your left nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue over the hardened nub and melting you to a puddle. Your entire body gives way beneath him, succumbing to the teasing of his touch as it moves across your chest. He’s enraptured in the pleasure he’s giving you.

  
Soft moans encourage him forward. His neck comes within a close enough proximity, as he reaches your right breast, for you to do the same to him. The prominent vein on his neck sticks out tantalizingly.

  
Peppering kisses across his neck, you suckle and nip. He groans his approval. Your body is incited with desire, spurring you to bite on the pulse point of his neck and earn a similar, yet much more guttural sound. His gaze meets yours. Soft green is much darker, yet flecks of the original colour shine through in the lust-lidded pupils. He’s still vulnerable, much like you are.

  
“I need you Dean,” You tell him, tongue smoothing over the sting of the bite on his neck. Your fingers grapple with his back, nails having left indents in the tan flesh.  
He nods, “I got you baby.”

  
His words are a rasp, an alluring rasp that gets your toes curling in anticipation. The dull ache in your chest is defeated by the warmth that envelopes your body, tightly embracing you. His fingers slip further south, fiddling with the button of your jeans and freeing you in an instant. Your panties are noticeably wet, fabric damp with your arousal. His lips form a slightly smirk, it’s more of a smile.

  
Lifting yourself to your knees, you fumble with the button of his jeans. His hands secure your arms as if to help you.

  
“Let me do it,” It comes out more as a plea. He releases you, enabling you to fumble with the gold zip that hides stubbornly in the denim. It takes three attempts before it comes down, button popped open. You pull them to reveal his boxers, black dotted darker in some spots with pre-cum. Palming him as you take them off him, you’re granted the opportunity to feel the hardness of him and the feeling of his hips keening into your hand. He lets out a noise that sounds vaguely like fuck.

  
You smile. You lie back, allowing him to break contact with you for a brief moment to remove his jeans properly. It’s a bittersweet moment as he takes hold of your hand, squeezing softly. He plants a peck on your lips, a saccharine touch that gets your heart palpitating once again.

  
He lifts your hand to his mouth, each knuckle being afforded a kiss. The feel of a cold tear on it from behind his lidded eyes is what gets you to act. You uncurl your hand from a fist, using it to tilt him to face you. He visibly swallows. He gains control of himself once again, murmuring an apology under his breath. You just want him to be okay, no formation from the Oxford dictionary could ever convey how strongly you wish that this could be different.

  
His fingers smooth over the material of your underwear, dipping inside the waistband and stroking over the length of you with his thumb. You moan. It feels delicious, entirely sinful, the rough against the sensitive skin gets the coil in your gut twisting.

  
Following suit, your hands sneak inside his boxers, they’re obviously confining him since as soon as he’s free of them his cock slaps against his stomach. It’s red, swollen, pre-cum forming at the dip in drips. You lick your lips. The craving to engulf him in your mouth is strong, one that you want to follow through on. When your head moves towards his hips he shakes his head, stroking your cheek.

  
“I want it to be both of us,” It’s his way of saying he wants to make love to you; saying the words aloud would have him cringing internally at himself.

  
Your back touches the cool of the duvet again, the temperature difference is enough to send shivers down your spine. He hooks your panties around his thumb, a pull is adequate to have you bare before him. He admires you. The dull ache makes itself prominent in your chest again, the loving stare is overpowering; every inch of you he adores. Every inch is about to be taken away from him.

  
The furrow of your brow doesn’t go unnoticed. He presses his lips to your forehead, whispering, “We don’t have to do this.”

  
“I want to,” You insist, thumbing the v-lines of his hipbones with your own admiration. You take his cock in your hand, tracing the outstanding vein with care. He groans. You brush over his tip, earning another buck of the hips and a disgruntled moan.

  
He’s about as needy as you are. You wrap your legs around his waist, cinching him close to you. The head of him brushes against your folds, sitting just outside your entrance. You cling to him, fingers clasping at his shoulders and running over the blades that sit just beneath them. His eyes meet yours, a devoted look racking him. This is the man who’d do anything to make you happy, would conquer and vanquish any enemy he could in order to protect you, this is the man who’s about to lose almost everything he holds dear. You don’t want to see him cry again.

  
There’s nothing to do but cling to each other, which is exactly what you do. His hips pitch, his cock entering you gradually and stretching you out. The sting of the action is negligible, the scorch and intensity of his gaze coupled with the feeling of having him inside you zeros out any pain. Your face contorts with pleasure, relaxing again once he pulls out and re-enters you. Fuck.

  
It’s positively divine to have him touching you this way. His arm cradles you close, your hands fight to lock him in close and dig into his shoulder blades in a way that makes him sputter a moan and thrust more deeply. His eyes close for a moment, his chest tightening with the effort of a proper inhale before they open to reveal a determined look. They lock with yours, his touch and gaze setting your body ablaze with pleasure. His mouth forms a smile.

  
“Remember the first time?” He grunts, keeping the pace slow but delving deep inside of you. His hand sneaks between your bodies, applying a gentle amount of pressure to your clit, “How drunk were we?”

  
You gasp a breath as his thumb digs more readily into the ball of nerves, your core pulsing as he disappears inside of you again, “So drunk,” You manage, squeezing down tentatively on his shoulder blade and inducing a ngh in response, “Didn’t think we’d end up here.”

  
He takes a moment to reply to that. The movement of his hips maintains the same pace, keeping you trapped in the same circle of ecstasy that borders on delirium now the pressure his thumb is applying has increased. There’s something wistful about his gaze, his mind is caught in a memory. You kiss him, passion helping to coax him from his trance. He returns the gesture, his lips tangling with yours and drawing out your tongue, letting him deepen the kiss and draw you ever closer to him.

  
A particularly deep thrust that nudges your g-sport has you mewling in his mouth. He breaks for air, taking a deep breath gratefully, “Lotta people don’t know when it’s their last time.”

  
If you grant yourself time to dwell on that thought then you know you’ll wind up getting upset, you force yourself to push it to the back of your mind. Dean doesn’t seem bothered, he busies himself with skimming his lips over your neck once more, suckling at opportune points. Well calculated thrusts have you writhing beneath him, working back against him with a buck of your hips. He grunts, allowing himself a second to catch his breath.

  
“You feel so good,” He mutters huskily against the shell of your ear, nipping at it. You moan.

  
Well-measured thrusts send jolts through your body, your fingers digging desperately into the muscle of his back. He lets out a sound akin to a groan, whispering barely coherent versions of sweet nothings in your ear, you can make out the repetition of words like ‘beautiful’ and ‘love’ but not a lot else.

  
“I love you so much Dean,” You tell him, grunting and meeting his thrust head on, his tip brushes your g-spot again and your whole being flutters with elation. Your walls clench around him, trying to keep him as close to you as possible.

  
You can feel his smile against your neck, “Love you too baby.”

  
The words aren’t being used flippantly now, each utterance is implicitly sincere. With a line of kisses peppered along your neck, his eyes flit up to yours again. Adoration radiates in them, he sees it reflected in your own. The moment is peaceful. The building of warmth and tension in the pit of your stomach threatens to crumble, his hips snap forward readily. Without warning he hits your sweet spot dead on, thumb circling in perfect time.

  
“Dean!” You let out in surprise, on the verge of thrashing beneath him. You find purchase in the way your nails sink into his back, leaving indents and tiny scratches that he’ll recognise as your markings.

  
He groans, “You close baby girl? Me too, come with me.”

  
The pace is still slow, fast enough to have you about to fall apart before his fingertips but not at all rough. You are his china doll, seemingly able to shatter with a few wrong moves. No, he’s rigorous but cautious, only moving fast enough to bring you to the verge. White hot pleasure burns through your nerves, your entire body warm, your chest and forehead damp with perspiration and your eyes dark with lust.

  
His thumb twists, applying enough pressure and coupling it with a deep enough push to send you hurtling over the edge. It feels like you’re soaring, like you’re indestructible, like tomorrow doesn’t matter because right now you’re safe; you’re always safe with Dean. A litany of ‘I love you’s’ follow you, recited profoundly into your ear as you fall beneath him, his arms cradling you tightly to him. Your walls clench around him, body jerking by its own decision as you soar from the peak of euphoria.

  
“Come on baby,” You urge Dean gently, biting down a little more harshly on his neck. Fuck is his response, it echoes around the room and intermingles with your name and within a second he’s coming.

  
His cock stills inside of you momentarily, his eyes squeezing shut so as to allow his body to cope with the pleasure thrumming through him. You grip onto him tight, holding him as close as possible as he too slides over the brink, you’re both soaring together, invincible. He empties himself into you, hot cum seeping inside of you and elongating your fading orgasm.

  
Somewhere between your eyes meeting his and them shutting again, you share a look of understanding; a poignant moment of clarity that helps you realise this is exactly where you’re meant to be in the universe. You don’t have any regrets.

  
Once your orgasms succumb, he peels his body away from yours. Rolling off you, he opens his arms, allowing you to nestle into the crook of his chest. Both of you are damp with perspiration, both worn out, both sated in the body. Your physical body is tired but your mind still whirs alive, frantically considering options. Dean feels the increase in your heart rate from where his hand rests, slightly below your breasts.

  
“I don’t want to lose you,” He tells you, voice cracking, “Sometimes your visions are wrong.”

  
It’d be proper to object, to tell him that it’s definitely right this time; was it worse to leave him hoping? Your eyes manage to open themselves, lethargic vision gaining lucidity when you see the pained expression on his face. No, to tell him the truth would be much more detrimental now, allowing him to dream of happier and brighter times together was only fair. Dean Winchester deserved to sleep well tonight and if that was what it took, then so be it.

  
“Yes,” You lie, fighting to restrain your voice and keep it somewhat even sounding, “Sometimes they’re wrong Dean.”

  
He doesn’t quite believe you. He accepts it though, forcing a smile and closing his eyes, “Things might seem better in the morning. Get some rest, if you wake up in the night then wake me up too.”

  
If you asked him to stay awake he would. But you don’t want to trouble him like that, tomorrow is a big day and at least one of you deserves a good night’s sleep. God knows how much he’ll throw himself into the job when you’re gone, probably neglecting himself like hell. He can barely handle taking care of himself with you around.

  
There’s some talk, small menial stuff that people talk about before bed, nothing out of the ordinary. There’s just more ‘I love you’s’ thrown in there than usual. You do feel tired, probably tired enough to sleep in better circumstances. If it weren’t for Michael’s smug smirk flashing before your lidded eyes or the vibration of ‘now you’re mine, forever, just like you were supposed to be’ around your mind, then you would be by now. The dull ache is back and this time it’s settled in to stay.


End file.
